Three Cigarettes
by Rhys Quinn
Summary: On tour with the Golden Boy, Hermione Granger’s dreams of true love are shattered with three cigarettes and a slow dance.


Title: Three Cigarettes

Author: Rhys Quinn

Summary: On tour with the Golden Boy, Hermione Granger's dreams of true love are shattered with three cigarettes and a slow dance.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter in any way, shape, or form. I also do not own "Three Cigarettes in an Ashtray", a country song used as inspiration for this story.

* * *

Country music was made for the miserable. Who else but a country singer could get away with alligator tears and honky-tonk and still have a fanbase? They're the gods of the heart-broken, and I'm worshiping at Patsy Cline's altar. 

The wonderful Harry Potter did it, folks. He defeated the evil Lord Voldemort, single-handedly of course. No help from his best friends of ten years. None at all, just a little wave the magic wand and a couple of butchered Latin phrases. Even now, after hearing his goddamn story for the millionth time, I snort into my beer and stub out another cigarette.

That bastard Golden Boy and the prossy from the bar.

I hate him. I hate her. I hate them both.

I feel sorry for the blonde bloke that the little whore just left behind. He's pretty cute. At least, that's what the back of his head and my second drink suggests. He looks as lonely as me, with his head sagging and his shoulders taut. I wish he would turn around for just a moment.

I pull out my lighter and burn the tip of what must have been my sixth cigarette for the night. It's a filthy habit, I know, but what can I say? It's all Potter's fault: he was the one who handed me my first cigarette, bought me my first American beer . . .

Took me to my first hotel room.

I bet that fact is quite a shocker, huh? Harry Potter and Hermione Granger in a sexual relationship. _Sexual_. Granted, Potter was the only one who got any satisfaction of it seeing as I always did what he wanted. Always! No matter how disgusting his wishes might be. He was the Magical World's savior, and it was my job to keep him happy. God, how I wish I had just walked away from him.

Right now we're in the States on a grand tour. Potter tells the world how he won, I smile and nod, everyone goes home happy. I cry in the shower until my eyes run dry, but we're all happy.

We just came from some enormous indoor stadium that typically held football games. The place was so full it was disgusting. Every person there loved the wonderful Mr. Harry Potter (Our Savior and Champion!) ad nauseam, and I'm still feeling nauseous.

Texas bars, smoke, and country music. And I thought it was only in the movies! Now it's clear that the cliche holds up well. They've even got a jukebox in this little dump, and the song that's playing is killing me. I think I want to cry, the song is so true. True to the last cigarette.

An hour ago, I would've thought I was the apple of Potter's eye, but I can see I was wrong when I look over towards him. Those granny smith apple eyes are all on that tramp, sharky teeth pulled up into a warped smile, smoke pouring out of the gaps of that smile like hellfire's shadow. His hand's even on her inner thigh, disappearing under the table and, more importantly, her skirt!

I didn't think anything of her when she and her boyfriend walked into Austin's. Potter and I were sitting at a secluded table surrounded by red vinyl seats, wood, and frosted glass. He smiled at me and told me just how beautiful I was. Potter placed two cigarettes between his lips, probably thinking he was so sexy, and lit them. I smiled back, thinking he was sexy, and took a cigarette. We both inhaled, exhaled, ordered two beers. American beer - gross, but better than the cheap vodka we had last night.

A little brunette waltzed in, hips swaying like a pendulum, with a blonde man attached to her waist. He was tan, and the hair was a lovely sand-colored blonde. He was a surfer boy stuffed into rocker clothes with a body to die for. He would've looked even better if she wasn't with him. Both glanced over at our table as they walked up to the bar, but it was too dark to see his face. She was gorgeous. He was a mystery.

It's not like I was shopping for guys while I was on a date. My date was Harry Potter, for Merlin's sake! I was thrilled with what I had, and he was thrilled with me. Sure, his eyes followed Miss Lovely right up to the bar, but I was following my Enigma. Potter's attention soon snapped back to me and all was right with the world.

"Harry, give me another cigarette, would you?" No response. I asked again. And again. I asked once more. His attention wasn't with me like I thought it was. In fact, his eyes were on the bar. A pair of hazel tinted almonds were staring back at him beneath black lashes sunk perfectly within a round copper oval of flesh. My heart ran cold as my leg kicked out.

My lover yelped as he reached to protect his injury. I forgot I wasn't wearing my heels today. I managed to pound his knee with one of the fancy brown boots that I received from Ronald a few years back. Back when I thought he could be the one.

Yet another love that didn't work out quite like I planned.

I glared at him, and he shot me the bird. It wasn't playful, it wasn't meant to be funny; he meant it absolutely. I was unnerved. Tears were welling up in my eyes with overwhelming power. I dropped my head to protect from embarrassment as a hand touched my shoulder. I shrugged it off and Potter sighed with exasperation. That was two firsts in one night.

Harry leaned back to switch our filled ashtray with the clean one on the empty table behind us. He lit up two more cigarettes and handed one to me which I took with a brusque movement. I saw no reason to be friendly with him at the moment. I took a drag and placed my cigarette into a small slot in the ashtray. I needed a beer more than anything, so I grabbed one - his - and took a giant unladylike swig. It was pure, sickening warmth. I reveled in it.

Potter had his eyes back on the tart, I soon realized, so I turned my attention on the blonde date she had in tow. He was nursing a drink in a small glass. His head was turned to the side so I only got a shadowy profile. He looked good in the dim lights. I felt a surge of lust build up within me, from my toes to my roots. I also felt a surge of blood rush up to my cheeks. Firmly, I told myself that I shouldn't be looking.

_I've got a boyfriend, for Pete's sake! Even if he is busy at the moment . . . _

Using my pet name, Potter told me that he had to go use the rest room. He even pointed out the sign for the men's room, as if I was some sort of blind idiot. I nodded numbly, a scowl planted on my face. He walked off with his cigarette in hand towards the room and her eyes were all over him.

A jealous rage threatened to overtake me when I remembered that this wasn't the first time another woman had caught his interest. In fact, nearly every club or bar or restaurant that we stopped at had some pretty little thing with lacy bits that wanted him. They each wanted so desperately to meet the handsome hero, but none of them were brave enough to come over to chat. Maybe it was because he seemed so arrogant and sure, or maybe it was because I sent deadly glares in every possible direction when the 'fairer' sex was present.

Fairer my ass! I mashed my half-dead cigarette into the table, secretly delighted that a lackluster ember could burn a hole through a tablecloth and into the wood of the table. Maybe I'm weird like that. I always think the small things are amazing.

I dropped the crumpled mass onto his empty seat. Where was the little whore at?

She wasn't at the bar. Her companion was alone with his newest drink. He was staring at the men's room door far across the bar, watching it swing back and forth with a pained look. He must've been as lucky as I was with love if his expression said anything. I wanted so badly to take her seat and strike up a conversation with him. We could moan about our unfaithful lovers as we downed a shot of bourbon or two, though I wasn't sure if Potter was being unfaithful or not. Maybe we could even sneak off under the stars. I could do with a Southern gentleman at the moment.

Potter came back twenty minutes later, and I thought about making a jibe about falling in the toilet. Instead, I simply stared at him as he sat down. He cleared his throat, apologizing for the wait, searching for another cigarette, doing everything but looking at me. The bastard's eyes would not meet mine. The home wrecker swayed her way back to the man at the bar without a care in the world.

I couldn't help but notice how they both came from the same direction. Neither could that blonde hair man. I knew that he felt the same way as I: crushed, betrayed, _lonely_. He had one hand propping his forehead up, elbow on the bar, empty glass in the other hand. He had downed that one glass and two more identical to it right as she sat back down, and she didn't have the decency to at least act concerned for him.

No, she was flat out facing my table. Her cheeks were flushed, and I thought that her lipstick was smeared. I took another swig of beer and held out my hand to Potter expectantly. He handed over another cigarette, unlit.

The idiot forgot to light the damn thing! I seethed, thinking over the most plausible scenario for what I feared had happened. He was cheating on me. The Golden Boy finally succumbed to temptation in the form of a dark haired vixen, a brazen call-girl. I had no proof; I hadn't caught them in the bathroom stall going at it like animals. It was just gut instinct, and it felt like I had been punched.

I couldn't find my lighter. My world was ending and I couldn't find my lighter. It wasn't in my purse, my pocket. It wasn't on the floor or the seat. It just disappeared. I nearly died when I had to reach over and tap Potter's hand to borrow his lighter. I had to show the entire bar that I could not hold my own boyfriend's attention. I was ashamed.

Harry Potter put a freshly lit cigarette into a slot in the tray.

He tossed the lighter at me and I heard him take in a small breath. He snatched back the lighter once I lit my cigarette, clearly looking shaken. At once, I knew why. His friend was now making her way over to the table with an unlit cigarette. She sat down on Potter's side without an invitation and held her cigarette out to him. He attempted to light it, but she wouldn't let him unless he held it perfectly still in front of him.

I put my cigarette down on the opposite side of his. Two cigarettes in the ashtray, like it should be. Like it wouldn't be for much longer.

Like the dog she was, she let her cigarette rest between her collagen-enhanced lips and leaned forward. The boyfriend she had left behind at the bar had his back turned to us, but I knew that he knew what was going on. He was actually shaking on his stool. The barman was eying him carefully, probably wondering if he should be allowed another drink while he was such an emotional mess.

A swirl of smoke framed her face and she smiled contentedly. Potter, _my_ boyfriend, looked from me to her several times. I wasn't surprised that he saw this as a choice. Sweet faced me, or super-model her. He looked at her, me. Then, he reached for the beer I finished for him when he took his trip to the bathroom. He didn't even seem to notice that it was empty when he tilted it up to take a drink.

We sat like that for five minutes. He squirmed and wiggled in his seat, I glared at the whore beside him, she only smiled at the two of us. The song on the jukebox was energetic, a two-step if I guessed correctly. Her smile widened as she motioned with her head towards the dance area that was slowly starting to fill. Her eyes met mine, and it was then that I knew I had lost him for good. Harry Potter stood up, she put her cigarette down, and they went away to dance.

Three cigarettes in the ashtray. He wasn't mine anymore . . . .

Those three cigarettes aren't here anymore. I strike up my last cigarette for the night, but never raise it to my lips. For some reason, it's become oddly symbolic.

Pathetic, that I can describe my love life like you would a cigarette. It's whole, perfect. Then you put a match to it. It's hot, glowing, but shrinking. It leaves ash and smoke to remind you of what you had, to remind you of what you stand to loose. Finally, you get to the end. No more nicotine, nothing left to keep you coming back. Just a stub and a handful of ash.

I think I'm choking.

I watch the one cigarette burn away, nearly to my fingers, before I drop it into the ashtray. I feel something running through my veins, something more intoxicating than my beer, more addictive than my cigarette. In a completely unexpected turn of events, I polish off my second beer and walk up to the blonde man at the bar.

I take her seat. I motion to the barman, feeling more sober than I did when this day began. Maybe it's adrenaline? Maybe it's pure insanity. I don't know what it is, but I can feel myself pulling out my wallet from my purse. I can't stop myself. I don't think I would even try to.

I throw down money, quite a bit, and order two beers like the ones I had before. The barman passes over two icy, sweating bottles of beer and two mugs. I set one down in front of the blonde man who hasn't even looked to see if I was his slut friend or not. The barman opens both bottles for me, and I empty them into our two mugs.

"I hope you can handle a beer with me. I think we're both in the same boat . . . ." My voice trails off softly, and I turn away. It wasn't the best choice of words, and he still hasn't looked at me. His shoulders shook even now. "I mean, your friend ran off with mine and . . . . I'm not making this any better, am I?"

A soft sound is coming from him. I can't tell if it's a happy sound or a sad sound - hold on!

He's laughing! He's really, really laughing! For a moment I thought he was dry sobbing, but he's laughing! I feel relieved, but all my courage is starting to drain. I don't know what I'm doing. Why the hell am I over here, buying a beer for a complete stranger? I have to get out of here! I rise up. A strong, tanned hand large enough to swallow my own catches my elbow. "Looks like famous Harry Potter screwed us both over, huh?"

Instead of the slow Southern drawl I expected to hear, my ears were greeted with the cultured English accent I've known for so long. Familiar grey eyes meet my plain brown ones. My mysterious stranger isn't so mysterious after all.

Those eyes belong to the one and only Draco Malfoy, long lost teenage Death Eater who couldn't kill Dumbledore. It's amazing what a tan and Muggle clothing can do for a guy.

I can only nod as he smiled sadly at me. Of all the people to meet at Austin's Bar on a Thursday evening, Draco was the last person I expected. I sit back down slowly and rest my hand on his.

We sit at the bar, sipping at our beers until they get too warm to drink. Even from here we can see those two dancing close to the saddest song I ever heard. Neither one seems to feel any guilt. Draco and I exchange looks.

Without another word, we leave Austin's and head out towards our - Harry's - car. I never once question why Draco Malfoy is being kind to me, why he hasn't taken a crack at my bloodline, why he hasn't tried to kill me or Harry. He slips into the passenger's seat. I'm behind the wheel now. I shift into reverse.

Pulling out of the parking lot, I decide to take my blonde stranger to the hotel room. Let the Boy Who Lived get his own damn ride. By the time he shows up, Draco and I will be long gone.

* * *

Finished! Just to warn you, this only turns out to be a one-night thing with Hermione and Draco. As wonderful as I think Hermione/Draco could be, I find it highly unlikely that the two could do anything more than be together once or twice, if that. It's an act of revenge against Harry Potter, who screwed them both over, as Draco put it.

I'm open to nearly any coupling if someone wishes me to right a certain couple. However, there are some conditions : no incest, only two people allowed in a couple -hence the word couple. If you want more than two people involved in the story, be specific which two you would want to have in the couple. Others will be turned into other couples, possessive ex-lovers, cheaters, etc.

There are some couples I may not be able to write at all (i.e. Professor McGonagal and Lord Voldemort, Hermione and Grawp, Draco Malfoy and a House Elf, you get the idea?), and I'm terribly sorry if you ask me to write one of those couples.


End file.
